


that which breaks, left undefined

by gabriphales



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, lowkey heavily coded gabriel as ocd lmao, n a bit of gabriel fantasizing ig??, noncon is discussed but nothing that happens is actually nonconsensual, some pre-smut but nothing explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:15:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23301505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: an inordinately repressed gabriel frets over his attraction to aziraphale. when the latter angel makes the first move, he finds himself incapable of refusing. crowley has some thoughts--and assumptions--on the matter.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	that which breaks, left undefined

**Author's Note:**

> this is a fic honestly heavily inspired by my experience w ocd, if anything seems overly dramatic thats whyskskskh thats just like,, how ocd makes u think tbh

His chest burns. 

There’s something in his lungs, a smoke he can’t cough up, heavy and overwhelming. He wants to choke, he wants to tear open his own throat and empty out the hatred forming in a solid lump. No matter how hard he tries, he just can’t swallow that knot. It only gets worse and worse, with every second passing by making his face grow hotter, his eyes stinging with an unfamiliar dampness. 

His knees feel weak, and he’s sick--he’s sick, he must be, because there’s no other explanation for this. Humans get sick, humans feel poorly when they’re sick. Their bodies need rest when they fall ill, which is exactly why he’s dropping to the ground now, head in his hands. He’s just sick. His body’s telling him to lie down, his body knows what’s best for him. So he’ll listen, obviously. He doesn’t need to worry about whether or not Archangels can even get sick--why should he? Why would he? Why would he worry about anything, he’s _Gabriel._ He’s always strong, always certain of every decision he makes. He knows what he’s doing. 

His eyes are leaking, he notices. How odd, how interesting. If he removes himself from the moment, he can almost remark on how spectacularly odd it is that human bodies will deplete themselves of their own resources--water, as Aziraphale had explained to him in the past, is a necessity for them-in order to express some kind of emotion. Their feelings are so powerful that their body just has to react, it _needs_ to.

Is that why he’s crying now? Is he willing to be vulnerable enough to admit to himself that he’s finally found the one thing he can’t win against?

Aziraphale smiles so gently every time he sees him. So soft, so hesitant. It’s a forced smile, and Gabriel knows it’s forced, he can tell the Principality isn’t actually happy to see him. But he’s selfish, terribly selfish at heart, and being with Aziraphale makes _him_ happy. So he draws out their short amounts of time together with whatever means necessary. One-on-one discussions after meetings, and visits down to Earth, just to check in on his progress with his demonic thwarting, among other duties. Those things, unnecessary as they are, offer him just enough of Aziraphale to keep him from going completely off the rails. And that’s what he has to maintain--a sense of stability, a sense of control.

So long as he has control over himself, Aziraphale will be safe.

And that’s why he’s in so much pain now, right? He’s realized he didn’t have enough control to stop himself from falling for him. Starstruck--painfully so, for that matter--with an idealized image of Aziraphale he keeps tucked away in the back of his mind. A fantasy to indulge in only when he decides God isn’t watching. He lets his thoughts wander then, to imagery of delicate, flushed skin. Pink and white, and soft all over. 

Fingers that shake as they drape over the lapels of his jacket. Pale knuckles that Gabriel can lead to his mouth, press his lips against the bone until he hears Aziraphale’s breath hitch. He wants that, he wants it so awfully badly. 

Would Aziraphale let him, he wonders? Would Aziraphale allow Gabriel the despicable satisfaction of ruining him? Would he shiver, tilting his head to the side as Gabriel’s teeth and tongue make an unholy display of his neck? Would he let his legs fall spread for him? Gabriel can picture it now, and even amongst all his misery, even amongst the tears and the aching and the _burn_ , he can’t stop himself from enjoying the mental image his brain so temptingly provides.

Aziraphale, on his back, gripping the sheets to a bed Gabriel doesn’t recognize, (he isn’t even sure if Aziraphale actually has a bed, but that doesn’t matter, not for now), and blushing while Gabriel takes him apart with his gaze alone. Aziraphale, gasping out little pleas for more. Aziraphale, wrapping his thighs around Gabriel’s hips, his eyes wide with an emotion Gabriel can’t quite place--

even in his fantasies, he’s still terrified of hurting Aziraphale. He’s terrified of that emotion being fear. 

There’s a voice that misaligns itself with the voice of the Almighty. One that he knows can’t possibly truly be Her, because God would never say the things this voice says to him. God is merciful, God is kind. God would only ever punish him for acting on his desires, right? Just thinking things can’t possibly be bad enough to fall. They’re just thoughts, they’ve only ever been _thoughts._

Even so, the guilt eats away at him, day after day, year after year. He’s been suffering like this for so long, and it’s finally reached a standstill, a point of no return. He knows if he doesn’t accept the weight of his own sin, he’ll never be able to overcome it. And if he doesn’t overcome it, then Aziraphale truly _will_ be in danger.

Already, Gabriel’s come too close to breaking the skin of his fragile self-restraint, hard enough to draw blood. He’s let his stares linger, allowed himself the pleasure of consuming Aziraphale’s physical form through vision only, (if he dares to touch, he might never let go). There’s been moments where he’s almost cracked, a friendly pat on the shoulder, or a handshake that was surely more thrilling for him than it ever could have been for Aziraphale.

Those brief interactions are enough to light up something unstoppable in Gabriel. A warm, fuzzy feeling that takes over his chest. It’s delightful for him, an experience he could’ve gotten lost in, giddy with the sensations Aziraphale gives him. But he knows that warmth is dangerous, he knows it’s only a matter of time before something sets it loose, and, inevitably, it ends up burning Aziraphale.

He’s two steps away from an unhappy conclusion. All he has to do now is backtrack, give himself some space from Aziraphale, avoid him at all costs--

but he doesn’t. He doesn’t, because he can’t stand the thought of being away from him. He’s greedy, greedy and derisive and cruel. Never before has there been an angel so cruel and uncaring as him, he muses. He’s so willing to sacrifice Aziraphale’s comfort, so eager and excited every time he finds himself looming outside that mournfully familiar bookshop entrance. Sandalphon never notices, none of the Archangels do. They’re too busy, caught up in planning the War ahead, to bother taking note of Gabriel’s clearly unusual behavior. It’s not like he’s being subtle, either. He’s quite sure he’s never been subtle in his life.

Aziraphale notices, though. And Gabriel has to wonder what goes on in that brilliant little mind of his. Does he presume Gabriel is angry with him? Does he fear a potential reprimand? Is he scared that one day his frivolities and hedonism will earn him a certain kind of divine retribution? Gabriel wouldn't ever dream of hurting him, at least, not in the physical sense. 

Though now that he thinks about it, isn't fucking physical? Isn't sex, sex with him, on Aziraphale’s part, inherently violent? It's an act of destruction. He'd be destroying Aziraphale if he ever dared to touch him, ever dared to indulge. He's awful, so terribly awful. His very presence, in Aziraphale’s eyes, is a wordless threat. He's a knife in the dark, aching to press against a throat far too soft for his rough edges. 

He wants to destroy Aziraphale. Realistically, he knows he must, because what he wants to do would only ever hurt him. He's wicked, absolutely wicked. And his only hope for redemption is to pray. To pray, and to vow to never lay a hand on such innocent skin as Aziraphale’s. He must sacrifice his own desires, for _once_ , in hopes of ensuring that Aziraphale is happy--that Aziraphale is safe.

He promises to never touch him. He promises to never give in. 

Which is what makes it all the more despicable when his hands, his filthy, vile hands, cling onto Aziraphale as their lips connect. It had been a shy act for Aziraphale, his intentions were clearly a tiny, hesitant peck. He'd barely gathered the nerve to actually go through with it, standing on the tips of his toes, and _blushing,_ when Gabriel had slammed their mouths together. He wasn't gentle, he wasn't sweet. He takes Aziraphale apart with every kiss he offers, sharp and unyielding as Aziraphale gasps and wilts underneath him.

Gabriel’s hands don't stop. He's counting the sins he makes as he does them. Each button on Aziraphale’s waistcoat a testament to his depravity. Each press of teeth, every bite he lays into his neck, a show of how malicious he could truly be.

And if Aziraphale had pushed him away, if Aziraphale had trembled, begged for him to stop, or even just looked slightly hesitant, Gabriel would have pulled off of him quicker than he could process. But he doesn’t. In the dark quiet of the room, he tilts his head up, lets his eyes meet Gabriel’s (they’re so big, so pretty, Gabriel might just die), and in the tiniest voice Gabriel has ever had the wonder of hearing, begs for him.

"Please, don't go."

And how can Gabriel deny a plea like that?

He kisses him until the sun goes down, a celestial patience and perception of time giving way to hours upon hours of simply staying locked within one another. And he doesn’t want to cry, he doesn’t want to cry, because that would be ridiculous, really--but when Aziraphale lets his waistcoat drop to the floor, whispering something under his breath about how lonely he's been lately, his eyes start to water against his own will. 

Aziraphale notices, and before he can muster up any vague, mildly concerned question, Gabriel cuts him off entirely.

"I'm sorry, I just--" he hesitates, a broken road connecting his brain and his mouth. "--you're just so beautiful, I don't--I'm not--"

And Aziraphale laughs. It's warm and familiar and _real_ , a real, actual laugh. Not the fake chuckles he's used before to get conversations with Gabriel over as quickly as possible. No, he's properly amused with what Gabriel has to say, he's _enjoying_ talking to him. Gabriel can't believe it. Does this mean he likes him? He ponders, surely Aziraphale must like him enough to willingly go to bed with him. Does that constitute any sort of genuine affection, platonic or otherwise? 

He isn't sure quite yet, but all thoughts he might have devoted to the matter fog over when Aziraphale unbuttons his shirt, just enough to properly expose his shoulders and chest. Gabriel's faith, wavering as it has been in recent years, renews itself tenfold at that sight alone. Aziraphale's eyes drop to the floor, he won't meet Gabriel's gaze anymore, and distantly, in the back of his mind, Gabriel is aware that he's probably embarrassing him. But he can't bring himself to care as much as he knows he should. 

He fucks Aziraphale that night. It's a crude, filthy way to describe the filthiest act he's ever gone through with. Aziraphale, for the most part, eagerly went along with anything Gabriel subjected him to. He'd seemed particularly fond of the oral (which is the only thing Gabriel can bring himself to call it), keeping Gabriel between his thighs for a solid half hour at least.

When he leaves Aziraphale, shaking and worn out in the bed Gabriel had miracled into existence, it's a blunt, cold leaving. To put it lightly, he runs away. Offering Aziraphale a blanket, because he really does look quite awfully chilly, and leaving before the Principality can get another word in edgewise.

He isn't sure if he's supposed to feel bad about that. 

Aziraphale cries for the first time in five hundred years, curled up in bed, thinking of the fate he's just thrown himself head first into. Gabriel's probably furious with him, no doubt he'll tell the other Archangels, and they'll come up with some sort of fitting punishment for his debauchery. Leading an Archangel to sleep with him? _Tempting_ him with his body? He's going to be in so much trouble for this, and Crowley's nowhere to be found.

His Crowley, his sweet, gentle Crowley. Who he'd screamed at and fought with 50 years prior, and hasn't seen since that dreadful, accursed day. He should've been more careful, should have known that eventually even Crowley would have a limit to what he could and couldn't tolerate. Aziraphale was just too much for him, as he is for everyone. Too much for Heaven, too much for Hell, and certainly too much for his superiors.

Except--

he wasn't too much for Gabriel, then, was he? No, Gabriel had demanded him, _all_ of him. And Aziraphale, who'd never even processed the idea that perhaps, anyone might desire more from him than the polished, well-kept impression of himself that he paraded around as a show for others, had had no choice but to divulge the entirety of his being to Gabriel.

It isn't love, Aziraphale knows. He's never used that four letter word, not even for the _something_ he feels for Crowley. But even so, he wants what Gabriel can give him. The feeling of being desired, idolized, _adored--_

But even that wasn't happening now, was it? Gabriel's probably heading up to Heaven to tell the whole lot of them of how disgusting, impulsive, _human_ Aziraphale's been behaving. And then he'll be in deep shit, deep shit indeed. 

He wishes Crowley were here. This would be so much easier with him by his side. 

For the second time in five hundred years, Aziraphale cries. Only now, there's an audience he remains rather _un_ blissfully aware of. Now, there's Crowley watching, through a bookshop window. And he isn't happy. Not one bit.

* * *

Gabriel doesn't eat. He doesn't eat, or drink, or otherwise indulge in the carnal pleasures of the flesh. But since he's already broken that rule ten times over tonight, he might as well do what he can to drown out the aftershocks of defiling innocence. He doesn't know which drinks the humans prefer for events like this, he doesn't know anything about humans, now that he thinks about it. Other than that they're loud, and obnoxious, and he can't seem to appreciate them the same way Aziraphale does.

He's so different from Aziraphale, sometimes it makes him wonder if they're really made by the same hand after all.

He drinks gallons of wine. Liquor and whiskey, beer, and every other sort of alcohol he can get down his throat. It doesn’t burn the way he wants it to--it doesn’t burn the way Aziraphale described it would. He wants his throat to hurt, he wants to feel the scalding temperature of the punishment he deserves, but it never comes. 

The bartender keeps eyeing him concernedly, watching as Gabriel gets progressively more intoxicated. His hands start to quiver around the tiny shot glass he’s been offered, and he can’t stand it, he can’t stand feeling like this, he can’t stand what he’s done--

the shot glass shatters in his grip. Even now, he can’t stop himself from breaking things too fragile for him.

“You gonna pay for that?” A voice from behind him asks. Gabriel freezes, he can smell this presence isn’t anything remotely holy, or even simply human. It’s demonic, pure, unadulterated diabolical energy. Something instinctual rears in his veins, a blazing adrenaline rush shooting all the way to his heart, sending his pulse reeling. He jolts up from his seat, and turns to face the creature, fully expecting an opponent. A vicious, vile heathen, set upon him with the sole intent to cause as much trouble as was possible. 

Instead, he sees Crowley. And his heart, which had been going at fifty miles per minute, leaps all the way up to his throat. 

“Not very polite for an Archangel, y’know that?” Crowley snickers, “Then again, your lot’s rarely as polite as you like to let on.”

Gabriel’s blood pressure spikes off any conceivable human charts. Were his body more mortal than it was celestial, he would have died within seconds. As it is, he only feels an awful lot like he might faint. But he can’t, he _can’t_ , because there’s a demon here, and he’s an angel, so it’s his duty to do something--even if he doesn’t remember what that thing exactly is--because that’s just how he’s _supposed_ to be.

He isn’t supposed to be the kind of person he’s turned into.

He thinks he’s going to throw up, actually.

The bile in his throat rises against every incentive he tries to force against it, uselessly telling his body that _now_ was not the right time for something like this. He miracles himself outside, at least having the good sense to not expunge his stomach contents onto the poor Bartender’s neatly polished floor. It’s an awful sensation; vomiting. He decides he never wants to vomit again right after the first spill--which, of course, is a desire quickly disregarded by his body, as he retches once more mere seconds later.

His whole body aches now, the muscles in his abdomen burning, and a harsh ringing in his ears developing to accompany the absolute shit show that welcomed it. A hand reaches out to touch his shoulder, he can see it in his peripheral vision, but he can’t fight back, he’s too weak, too tired--

too willing to accept that he probably deserves whatever Crowley wants to do to him.

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that, right?” 

The hand grabs his shoulder, wrenches him around so that he can properly see Crowley, and suddenly Gabriel’s face is burning, he burns, it--Crowley must have hit him, that’s it. That’s the only explanation. There’s blood running down his cheek, and he realizes, absentmindedly, that the rings on the demon’s fingers scratched him, he’s bleeding now. Angels don’t bleed. Angels _don’t_ bleed. But is he even an angel now? Is he anything anymore? 

“I can’t believe you, you know, I really thought you were just kind of a schmuck. A little irritating, kinda mean to my friend, but not that bad at the end of the day, right? Just a weird, stuck up, holier-than-thou _prick--”_ Crowley snarls, aiming for another blow, this time hoping to strike Gabriel square in the center of his face. He’s going to break his nose, Gabriel knows it, but he doesn’t care, he wants to be hurt, he wants to suffer. 

“--But, actually, you’re way worse than that. Like, _way_ worse than that. And you’re not even subtle about it either, are you? No, you’re entirely fucking shameless. Flaunting it around like it’s some kinda goddamn accomplishment. I know what you _did._ ”

Gabriel doesn’t cry this time. He doesn’t cry, because bad people don’t deserve to cry when they get the punishment they deserve, and he’s a bad person.

“You’re such a fucking cunt, what did you do to get him to sleep with you, huh? How’d you convince him--no, _manipulate_ him. Did he even say yes? What did you fucking _do_ to him?” Crowley doesn’t stop, he can’t stop, he’s an onslaught of rage and terror and _hate_ manifesting in the form of an assault as verbal as it was physical. Gabriel’s stomach twists at the very concept of having forced Aziraphale into doing what they did together--had he forced him? 

Had he said something, done something, _anything_ to put the idea in Aziraphale’s head that the only way to get out of the situation in one piece was to let himself be used? Had he used him? Just how bad is he, really? How fucking terrible can one person be?

“Aziraphale wouldn’t--he wouldn’t ever do that, okay? He wouldn’t ever fuck you unless he thought he had to. I know him, I know what he’s like. You’re a fucking--I can’t even _look_ at you.” Crowley spits out, sounding more miserable than angry at this point. There’s tears welling in his eyes, and Gabriel can’t help but add this to the list of offenses he’s got racking up on his record. Making anyone cry over a bad deed, even if they are a demon, has to be some sort of sin. And good lord, Crowley is crying. He’s most certainly crying at this point. Fat, unfiltered tears dribbling down his cheeks, his chin, smeared across his face when he wipes his eyes half-hazardly.

“I just--I don’t understand, I don’t _understand.”_ he sobs, his knees wobbling, threatening to buckle any moment now. “Why would you--why would you do something like that? You, of all people. We used to be friends, I used to like you, before the fall--I only hated you after that because I was supposed to. And now--now--” 

There’s a sickening crunch, and Gabriel hears his nose break more than he feels it.

“Fuck you, Gabriel.” Crowley says, gathering himself well enough to walk away without stumbling, his fists still clenched at his sides, coated in blood.

And just like that, he’s gone. Gabriel’s left alone, cold in the Autumn chill, and warm with blood.

**Author's Note:**

> u made it thru congrats


End file.
